I admit it

I finally admitted, out loud, that I’ve been battling depression for a while now. For months. I’ve put up a variably functional front, even been enthused over things here and there. But I’m not okay. And I don’t feel like I deserve to be depressed. I don’t contribute to the physical upkeep of the household with any consistency or the financial upkeep at all. I’ve never in my life managed to keep a single job for longer than about 5½ months. I’m within a year of 40, fat, unmotivated, unskilled, introverted, and, despite occasional efforts to the contrary with things like Lions, feel pretty much not worth the space I take up or the food I eat.

I don’t know if being medicated would help. We can’t afford the copays for me to find out right now. The biggest difficulty, even more so than the copays, is that our only vehicle is gone 5:30 am to 5:30 pm every M-F. We don’t have a particularly robust public transportation system in Killeen, and any offices are honestly too far for me to walk.

Part of the reason I don’t feel like I deserve to be depressed is that for right now, we have our house, we’re only a month in arrears on a few bills, we have insurance that covers going to a doctor to find out if medicating me would help and at least part of any medications that I might end up put on. Even with the issues I’ve got, I’m pretty remarkably privileged. I realize, objectively, that I have no less right to the care I need to live as a whole person. A strong part of me in the depths of my mind still buys into that work ethic thing that I would be better off if I just got my damned ass a job and a car and maybe some therapy. Too often, I hear these kind of thoughts in my dad’s voice. Especially the ones that add in therapy as an afterthought, because I’m weak enough to need it.

Right now, I’m just caught in a spiral of crap and I don’t really see a way out.

Tell me about it...